


Still Waters

by ChampagneSly



Series: Top Ten [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Historical, M/M, Romance, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-07
Updated: 2012-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-29 03:54:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/315523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChampagneSly/pseuds/ChampagneSly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>November, 1943. A reunion of sorts, in the midst of WWII, as the tide has turned in Denmark. With Sweden's assistance, Denmark is summoned to Stockholm to see what answers Norway can give for he has been, silent and gone, these past years of the war, and why now, after all this time, Norway has come out of the shadows.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_November, 1943_

Denmark turned up the corners of his collar, shrinking inside his coat to hide from the chill of a crisp fall night in Stockholm as he walked the dark streets, shoving his hands deeper in his pockets to fumble with the note that had roused him right out of a more than three year stupor. To be sure, a terse, frank letter from Sweden was not terribly out of the ordinary, especially in times like these when his once-enemy was the only neutral party among their little family, carefully straddling the line between Axis and Allies, farming out information as he best as could, helping as best as he was able without drawing too much unnecessary attention.

But this letter had been different, Denmark thought as he ran his fingers over the well worn edges of the paper, staring at the front door of the Grand Hotel, vaguely recalling better days of summer warmth admiring the yachts tied in the harbor that was now cold and barren with the first hints of winter. For this letter, doubtless pawed over and inspected by his occupiers, for all its natterings and useless news, held that which he had been seeking since May of 1940, when Norge had disappeared.

And through these years he had dared to ask Sweden alone if he knew where their Norway had gone, wary of his desperate interest causing desperate interest in other parties who would not have Norge’s best interests in mind, ashamed that he would not do more, sitting quietly alongside the rest of his people, trying not to rouse German attention. And though he had written without fail every month, burying his queries within vague references to their long shared history, for more than three years that had been no assurance to be found in the Swede’s replies.

There had been nothing Sweden could tell him, no definitive word, not a single silent signal to ease his worried mind, to tell him where Norway had gone or if he was as safe and well as could be expected, leaving Denmark to hide his fears behind a vacant smile and an unshakable belief that there was nothing in this world that his Norge couldn’t handle.

After all, he’d put up with Denmark’s shit for several centuries and Sweden’s for one. It always struck Denmark as a pretty fucked up twist of fate that Norge was only able to enjoy his independence for 30 some odd years before the rest of Europe had to go and make trouble for him all over again.

So, for what felt like far too long, Denmark let his inexhaustible supply of enthusiasm for Norway sustain him when there was nothing else to go on, nothing else to do but wait and see where are the chips would fall when all the cards of the war had played. But everything was different now on Denmark’s soil, the hesitant calm cooperation that had sustained them through the early years of the war was gone, crushed under the chaos of the summer strikes and the dissolution of his last vestiges of free government. Now, though he was hampered by martial law and the full measure of the occupier’s displeasure, Denmark felt freer than he had in almost four years, riding the high of sneaking into Sweden’s place, his old conqueror’s heart taking what pleasure he could in exacting even this tiniest of victories.

Besides, there wasn’t a damned thing anyone could have done to have kept him from stepping through the heavy doors of the Grand Hotel, heart in his throat and hat in hand, readying himself to answer the summons he’d so long sought in Sweden’s drab missives. For after all the months and years of not knowing, of feeling an absence more deeply than the early days of 1814, Norway had called for him.

‘It was about damned time’, Denmark had thought with such vicious, tearing relief when he first received and read the letter, nearly falling out of his chair with hysterical laughter from the words that made his eyes water and his heart race with a feeling he’d almost forgotten:

 _“November has always reminded me of our Margaret and the games we played together in our youth. Do you remember? Though I assured him that you would, our former playmate assures me you are far too great an idiot to recall those faraway days. I think perhaps he has a score to settle with you on this matter, should you ever chance to find yourself in Stockholm again.”_

He’d been forced to sober up to make sure that it wasn’t just his wistful, foolish mind seeing shit that wasn’t there, but when the fog had lifted, he was certain. Norway was back, tucked away somewhere in Sweden’s vast lands, taunting him with allusions to Queen Margaret and the glory days of Kalmar. As if he would have forgotten those rich, heady decades of power when Norway sat at his side and all of Scandinavia united under one crown. As if he could forget such things in days like these when he teetered on powerlessness.

Goddamn, he’d thought when his joy had subsided into yearning affection, Norge was a lovely bastard. Only he would think to break years of mysterious silence with such subtle, stinging mockery, still quick to point out all of Denmark’s many inadequacies.

He was pretty damned sure that he’d re-read that letter more times than he was ever going to confess in the intervening weeks it had taken to arrange passage to Sweden, embarrassed to admit that he woken up afraid that he’d waited too long and Norge had gone and stolen away again, leaving him as alone and wondering as he’d been before his invitation to the Kalmar Reunion had arrived.

But now he was here, in the warm lobby of the hotel that held Norway somewhere in its maze of hallways and rooms, standing on a knife’s edge of anxiety and excitement, searching out Sweden’s familiar broad back at the bar. He crossed the floor to the sounds of a lackluster band playing in the lounge, entertaining the few guests that remained at this summer time resort, smiling widely as he set his hat down next to Sweden’s large hand and slid onto the chair next to him.

“Does a big ugly brute like you come here often?” Denmark asked with a teasing leer, enjoying the flicker of annoyance over Sweden’s gruff face, taking comfort in that which even the darkest days of history never seemed to change.

“Drink?” Sweden grumbled, turning away from Denmark’s growing smirk, gesturing towards the selection of bottles behind the bar.

Denmark considered the flask in his pocket, his intended offering to his Norwegian runaway, suddenly convinced that any reunion with Norway would go easier on them both if he tempered his eagerness, his worry with just a tiny hint of Dutch courage.

“Thanks, I owe you one,” Denmark said cheerily, before he felt the weight of all that Sweden had done for him settle on his shoulders, touching his fingers to Sweden’s hand and murmuring, “Hell, I owe you a lot more than one.”

Sweden grunted and shook his head, sliding over a tumbler of amber, “Nothing you wouldn’t do for me.”

Denmark laughed wryly, sipping at his drink, relishing the too long missed burn of good Scotch on his tongue, “And to think, 150 years ago I would have happily danced on your grave for taking Norge from me, and here you are, letting me have a chance at him again.”

Sweden snorted, “He’s the one that asked to see you. I’m just the messenger.”

“And our obliging host for the evening,” Denmark said with a wink and a smile, draining the remains of his drink before asking with measured casualness, “So how is he?”

Sweden stood from the bar, considering his answer for so long Denmark began to fear the worst, “Quiet. Cold. Aloof. Secretive.”

Denmark sighed laughingly, following Sweden as he made for the bank of elevators, calling after him, “Same old Norge, then.”

“Also determined,” Sweden mumbled as the elevator doors closed in front of them, Denmark’s pulse rising with each floor they ascended.

“Maybe a tired, a little worn,” Sweden confessed lowly, catching Denmark’s attention just as the ding sounded, signaling their arrival, “But you’ll have to see for yourself. You always did know him best.”

And as he stepped foot into the dimly lit hallway, closer to Norge than he had been in four long years, Denmark had to wonder if that was true, if he really did know Norway best. He had no idea where he had gone, what he had been doing, why he had kept silent until now, kept his distance so entirely from Denmark that it had been as though he no longer existed. Who keeps themselves so entirely from the one that supposedly knows them best?

He looked up from his study of the carpet to find Sweden looking at him with a strange mix of exasperation and pity and it was only then that Denmark recalled that Sweden also knew what it was to miss someone, to feel so keenly the loss of something so long possessed.

When he caught up to Sweden’s long, steady strides, Denmark clapped his shoulder, leaning in close to ask, “Have you heard from Finland?”

Sweden’s grimace told him everything he needed to know and as they reached a nondescript door, one among hundreds, Denmark slid his hand down Sweden’s shoulder to grasp his hand in a firm shake, speaking urgently, “I’m sure he’s fine. No one’s tougher than Fin, and, well, no matter what happens with this whole mess, we’ll all be here for him.”

He laughed lightly at the sight of Sweden’s surprise, shaking his head, “Don’t look at me like that, you scary bastard, we’re family.”

“Since when?” Sweden said gruffly, elbowing Denmark in the side, distracting him from the rapid fire beating of his heart as Sweden knocked sharply twice on the door.

“Since always. I figure sometimes we just forgot. But now we forgive and forget,” Denmark rambled on absently, trying to listen for sounds of life beyond the remaining wall that divided him from Norway.

“Thank you,” Sweden mumbled quietly, shuffling backwards, leaving Denmark standing alone, anxiously holding his hopes in hand.

“No, thank you,” Denmark said, about to say more, to try and tell Sweden how much this meant, when the door swung open and everything faded into the background but the sight of Norway’s lovely inscrutable blue eyes and the strange sensation he had of drowning while standing on solid ground.

For a long, still, moment, Denmark was permitted to just stare, to see nothing but the familiar lines of Norway’s jaw and the slope of of his nose and that haughty faraway look that had always made him want to run his hands all over that cold, stubborn body until there was at least a little bit of attention there for him.

“Denmark,” Norway said quiet and low, as though his voice had gone rough from disuse, “Are you going to come in or stand  gawking like an idiot?”

Denmark did not need to be asked twice, nor did he have any intentions of letting Norway out of his sights, quickly stepping into the small room and shutting the door, closing them off from the world. A hasty look around the four corners of the space told him that Norway had been here for more than a few days, little traces of evidence scattered about that to this day reminded him of the many years they had spent sharing a home.

He smiled into Norway’s silent, distant gaze, wanting to reach out but settling for speaking with soft urgency, “Norge, I’m so glad you’re...” only to fall quiet once again as Norway put his chill, pale fingers over across his jaw, blinking slowly at him.

Denmark pushed his cheek into Norway’s palm, smiling through his confusion as Norway just looked at him, gaze tracking over his face until his expression slowly melted into cool amusement and his hands fell away.

“Your hair looks ridiculous,” Norway said lowly, a tiny gust of laughter escaping from his thin lips when Denmark’s hands instinctively flew to his head to try and correct the damage his hat had wrought, “But I do like the coat.”

Denmark smirked and started shrugging the long black jacket from his shoulders, “I’m glad it meets with your majesty’s approval.”

Norway sat down at the small table by the window, gazing out into the clear, starry Stockholm night, snorting, “I see the war has done little damage to your wit.”

Denmark chuckled lowly, tossing his coat on the bed and joining Norway at the table, “And you would know that how? Seeing as how you’ve been in such constant contact since 1940...”

Norway looked at him sharply, as though surprised by Denmark’s bitterness, clamping his mouth shut and staring deliberately out the window. Denmark took the opportunity to stare at Norway’s lean profile, further whittled down by what he could only imagine had been years of struggle, angry that he did not know what it was that had caused the fine scar that traced up the curve of his neck. The sweater he wore hung off his shoulders, badly stitched together as thought it had originally been intended for a much larger man.

He wondered if perhaps it was one of Sweden’s cast-offs, if Sweden was doing all that Denmark could not, feeding, clothing, and sheltering Norway, while Denmark floundered in his ineffectiveness. He strangled his burgeoning jealously with the memory of Sweden’s obvious distress at Finland’s absence.

“I brought you a little something,” He said, trying to regain his footing, uninterested in this fraught tension, fumbling in his pants pocket for the flask, tossing it onto the table, “From my dwindling stash. Aalborg’s finest.”

Norway glanced at him archly, taking the offering between his fingers, asking coolly, “Beginning to feel the deprivations, are you?”

Denmark smirked and pushed his foot against the rung of Norway’s chair, “What can I say? Ever since that little incident with the telegram the good stuffs been a little harder to come by.”

Norway’s eyes glittered, voice brittle with dark humor, “No longer enjoying Germany’s company?”

“I’m a little less hospitable these days,” Denmark said lightly, thinking of his people’s nascent resistance movement and his own itch to be involved. Norway looked at him with careful consideration, mouth tightening for a fraction of a second, betraying some emotion that Denmark imagined he wasn’t supposed to see.

“Is that so?” Norway murmured, once again looking out the window, “It will get worse before its over. Lack of alcohol may come to be the least of your worries.”

“You speak from personal experience?” Denmark asked carefully, though he knew the answer already, knew it in the sharpness of Norway’s jaw, and the angry sorrow that he could see just under the surface of Norge’s familiar determined reservation.

“Idiot,” Norway responded with soft derision, unscrewing the cap of the flask, “If only there could be a ration on stupid questions.”

Denmark laughed, warmed by Norway’s centuries old scorn, trying to drag Norway closer with his feet, watching Norway watch him with wary amusement as he partook of Denmark’s peace offering, humming with faint pleasure as he swallowed. The sound of it tickled obscenely in Denmark’s ear, warming with something else entirely.

He wanted to touch Norway, to bring their lands back together in all the familiar, comforting ways that had made him happy for so long.

(Sometimes, he even suspected that the taste of their kisses had made Norge a little happy, too).

But he held back, unsure of too much in the face of years of separation and Norway’s chosen silence, settling for licking his lips and smirking lasciviously when Norge sighed again, murmuring richly, “Damn Norge, if its that good, you had better share.”

He received an eye roll and the flask for his troubles and so he licked the rim that had so recently been pressed to Norway’s mouth, helping himself to less than his fair share of the drink he’d brought all this way for his once and still beloved, enjoying the way Norge’s eyes tracked the movements of his throat.

“That _is_ good,” Denmark said with a wink, wiping his mouth with his hand and shoving the flask back at Norway, letting himself pretend for a moment that they were back around some campfire, not hiding away in Sweden, wasting borrowed time on drinking.

“You should know, fool,” Norway mocked gently, letting their hands brush as he took it back, “Since you brought it all this way.”

“Well, I figured it was a special occasion,” Denmark said with loaded intent, suddenly weary of cloaking his questions and his worry in false camaraderie. He’d never been one to walk on eggshells with a man an impenetrable as Norway before.

As he expected, Norway’s gaze sharpened even as he continued to polish off the booze, and Denmark pressed ahead, ignoring the rushing of his desire at the way Norway leaned towards him, flicking his tongue over his lips, catching the last drops.

“So, why now, Norge? After three years of nothing, why this little song and dance so generously orchestrated by Sweden?” Denmark asked bluntly, catching Norway’s wrist between his fingers, wanting to pin him down and force the answers from him, demand to know why he’d been left in the cold for so long.

To his surprise, Norway smiled at him, a soft, slippery evasion to disguise the tension in his voice and the caution in his eyes as he said, “Perhaps I wished to spare you further deprivation.”

Denmark laughed shortly, releasing Norway’s wrist, “Ha, somehow I don’t think it was your concern for either my liver or my heart that brought you out of the woodwork.”

Norway stared at him, as though surprised by the rejection of his blithe romantic overture, blinking twice before he said coolly, “And yet that is all the answer you shall get.”

 _For now_ , Denmark thought stubbornly, hurt despite his lack of dismay that even now Norway was still hiding from him, that they could be this close and so far apart.

He sighed and rubbed his head, further mussing his already tangled hair before snapping forward in his chair, eying Norway with determination and grumbling, “At least tell me where the hell you’ve been.”

“Have you been so worried?” Norway asked with faint amusement, tossing the now empty flask back at Denmark, who scowled and heatedly complained:

“Of course I have!”

He slammed his fist on the table, only to still at the touch of Norway’s cool palm covering his and the sight of Norway’s eyes darting towards the door, his body filled with sudden apprehension, as though he expected someone to intrude at any moment.

Curious and contrite, wondering what had transpired to make Norway so alert, Denmark coughed and gentled his tone, turning his hand over to meet Norway’s, “Sorry. But, yes, of course I worried. Some of us do that, you know.”

Norway snorted at the obvious rebuke, though his eyes remained fixed on the door as he pressed his thumb into Denmark’s wrist, murmuring, “I always counted on you being too stupidly stubborn to come to any real harm.”

Denmark laughed brightly, thrilling to the touch and the taunt, shaking his head, “Still such a sweet talker, Norge! Though I gotta say, even though I was worried, I always knew you’d be alright somehow.”

“Of course I would,” Norway said brusquely, though his shoulders lost their tension, and he finally brought his chilly gaze back to Denmark, settling in his seat, pulling his fingers away to drum a steady beat on the table.

“So, cough it up. Where have you been?” Denmark pressed once more, leaving his hand where it was, in case Norge was feeling generous enough to hold hands again, wishing there were no questions that needed answering, that it was only clothes and not mysteries that needed removing.

Norway stared at him for a long moment before sighing and answering in that familiar bored tone that almost always meant he was saying something worth listening to, “With England, mostly.”

“What?” Denmark asked, hot with jealous surprise, cut off by the flash of genuine irritation in Norway’s eyes.

“Spare me your petty jealously,” Norway said sharply, “You have little idea of what I owe him.”

Unable to keep the angry envy from his voice, frustrated with Norway’s little half measures of honesty, Denmark asked plaintively, “Why don’t you tell me, then? Explain it to me!”

Norway closed his eyes and took a deep breath, the silence the room thick with all that continued to go unsaid until he looked at Denmark once again and finally pulled back the veil of secrecy.

“Sabotage, resistance, _special operations_ ,” Norway said flatly, and finally the pieces began to click in the jumble of Denmark’s mind, the years of silence blending with remembered rumors of England’s fingers working behind the curtains in so many occupied countries, secret people doing things in the shadows to tear down the enemy.

“Seriously?” Denmark asked, though he already knew the truth of the matter from the seriousness lurking in those ocean eyes, a thread of respect bleeding into his voice as he observed Norway’s quiet pride, “I’m impressed. Though I suppose I shouldn’t be. Old Eyebrows always was a tough, crafty, bastard.”

“Indeed,” Norway answered with such rare frankness that Denmark had to wonder what had transpired in the Norway’s missing months and years, what bonds had forged between two men with a common enemy, even after the failures of ‘40.

“And all this time, you’ve been one of his chess pieces,” Denmark said, whistling in admiration, stomach twisting again with a different kind of envy, thinking of all that Norway might have done while he’d been just...enduring.

Norway smiled faintly, “I suppose I have learned to play the game rather well.”

“I believe it,” Denmark said fondly, “You’re as inscrutable and unflappable as they come. Nothing throws you.”

“Almost nothing,” Norway answered cryptically, looking absently at the floor, avoiding Denmark’s smile.

“Hey, maybe you could teach me?” Denmark said a careless wink, though his mind lit up with all the myriad ways he could continue to make his land less welcoming, all the many ways in which he could prove to be very troublesome indeed.

“Is that what you intend, now that Germany’s pretense at civility is over?” Norway asked lightly, glossing over Denmark’s question. Denmark saw that the tightness had settled once again on his shoulders, feeling the odd searching scrutiny of Norway's intense stare.

“Of course,” Denmark answered jovially, smiling widely to disguise his confusion at the odd lines of tension spidering out from the corners of Norway’s thin lipped frown.

“I had suspected as much,” Norway murmured lowly before he turned away, fingers again tapping impatiently.

“So, tell me master spy, what havoc have you and England been wreaking?” Denmark asked with rich curiosity, reaching out to still Norway’s anxious hand, enjoying the way it softened under his touch.

Norway smirked at him, blinking away the strange tension, his answer coolly smug, “Perhaps you’ve heard little whispers about  problems with securing certain water.”

Denmark’s eyes widened, his grip on Norway’s hand tightening involuntarily, “You’re joking. The sabotage of Vemork? Damn, Norge. You don’t mess around.”

“With heavy water?” Norway said darkly, “I wouldn’t think so. As if I want to give those bastards any other advantage stolen from my lands, my people.”

“Jesus,” Denmark breathed out, belated worry twining with the ridiculous wish that he could have been there, too, could have stood by Norge’s side and helped him reclaim even a little piece of himself, “That must have been damned risky.”

“Obviously, idiot,” Norway said with something that sounded remarkably like affection, curling his fingers under Denmark’s palm, smiling a little, “I had to ski four hundred kilometers into blessed neutrality to escape the multitude of risk that followed us.”

“Really, now?” Denmark asked with a wide grin, feeling the hum of Norway’s quiet pride at what he had been able to do for his people, for his nation, “That’s one hell of a cross country slalom.”

“I threw up on Sweden’s shoes as soon as I arrived,” Norway confessed without shame, causing Denmark to snort with laughter at the thought of Norge greeting his neighbor with the contents of his exhausted stomach, imagining Sweden’s appreciation of such a welcome.

Still laughing, Denmark leaned into Norway’s space, gasping out, “Feel free to teach me how to do that, too.”

Abruptly, Norway’s amusement faded into tense wariness, sighing, _“That again?”_ just as Denmark's own mirth came to a crashing halt in the wake of what Norway had inadvertently revealed to him.

If the rumors were to be believed, the sabotage of the plant had happened months ago, sometime in the late winter, long before Sweden’s much wanted letter had arrived.

Denmark stood up, circling around the table to glare down at Norway, “Sweden’s known you were here for months.”

“Yes.”

Denmark cursed quietly and tried to stem the angry flush of hurt at the blunt, calm admission, knowing that Norway had reasons all of his own for everything he did.

“And you told him to say nothing? To tell me he hadn’t heard from you, hadn’t seen you, when all the while he had you stashed away somewhere?”

Norway’s gaze was calculating, but his voice was soft when he stood as well, meeting Denmark head on, “Yes, I asked him to keep his silence. He didn't stash me anywhere, Denmark. I hid myself.  He did want to tell you, so spare him your petty jealousy as well.”

His hands fell possessively on Norway’s waist as he struggled not to feel Sweden’s actions as betrayal, nor Norge’s choices as a rejection, when Norway continued to explain, “He’s allowing my people to train here, he shields our activities under the guise of a police force, but we have no such peaceful intentions.”

“And you couldn’t trust me with that information?” Denmark asked heavily, comforted only by the gentleness in Norway's careful touch, the apology that the fingers on his wrists seemed to want to convey.

Norway peered up at him through his lashes, murmuring softly, “Maybe, maybe not. But it was my secret to keep, mine to keep safe.”

Denmark exhaled noisily, looking down sharply when Norway shifted in closer, so near that he could feel the bones of his hips against his thighs, stirring his desire along with his frustration.

“So, what’s different? Why reveal all this, reveal yourself now?” Denmark asked, trying not to lean into the hand that was rushing up his chest, wanting to hold fast to his need for answers.

“Does it matter why?” Norway answered coolly, though the press of his fingers under the hem of Denmark’s shirt was warm and distracting, causing the skin of his stomach to tremble with repressed lust.

“It does,” Denmark insisted lowly even as his hand slid traitorously low on Norway’s back, skimming the curve of his bottom, his body already giving into Norway’s seduction.

Norway’s face came nearer and nearer, arms reaching up for him, as he looked at Denmark with something akin to fond exasperation and maybe a hint of relief, breathing out against Denmark’s already parted and wanting lips, “Because you lack subtlety.”

Then Norway kissed him, pushing him through the ice he had let form over his endless sea of desire, starling Denmark with the force and hunger of his embrace, washing away every remaining question and protestation but one, as Denmark whispered into the wet press of Norway’s kiss:

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Shh,” Norway said impatiently, teasing Denmark with the obvious taunting roll of his hips and the slide of his fingers further up his shirt, “The only thing that means anything is that I am here _now_ , idiot.”

And even as he moaned and bent  to meet Norway’s precise, greedy kiss, Denmark knew this was a distraction, Norway’s finest honed technique of stopping his questions, stopping his stubborn mouth, by allowing his tongue do nothing but twine with his. But, Denmark promised himself desperately as soft impatient hands dipped into his pants, there would always be time to talk after, to seek out the answers he wanted after he’d had remembered the feel of Norway’s skin and the curve of his cock.

It had been too long and he was too weak to want to resist, letting Norway push him down onto the bed and smother his curiosity with the shift of his hips and the rush of his fingers, casting aside their clothing along with Denmark’s insistent need to know all that lay hidden in Norway’s too secret heart.

So he thought of nothing but the way Norway kissed him as though they had not been parted, as if he had been thinking of nothing else but this from the moment Denmark stepped over the threshold, drawing his lust forth until he was hard and aching, arching into every slip and slide of Norway’s fingers, so precise and practiced in their deliberate torment.

Damn, but Norge was so good at following through on a stratagem, Denmark thought fervently as Norway straddled his waist, cradling his cock between his legs, stroking them together once, twice, three times, all while staring down at Denmark with those winter sky eyes, mouth parting in a tiny sigh of pleasure when Denmark pushed slick fingers beyond the tenderness of his thighs.

It was too hard to think of anything but the desire to kiss Norge breathless while he fucked him with his fingers, too hard to take any greater action than surging forward and pushing Norway onto his back, so his hair hung pale and loose off the side of the bed, and his eyes widened with arousal when Denmark’s hands spread him open once more as he kissed him with all the frustrated yearning that silence and distance had wrought.

And when his fingers were once again within the tightness and heat of Norway’s body, and Norway’s mouth was swollen and red from their embrace, Denmark smiled, hot and quick, licking the sweat from Norway’s throat as he laced their hands together over their cocks and let them both remember how good it always was and always would be between them, just like this, when they were nothing but a tangle of limbs and lust.

Finally, the in the slick, panting aftermath, Denmark gathered Norway near, pressed his face into the hidden dampness of his throat, fumbling for the covers to protect them from the cold that threatened beyond the window, feeling the luxury of satiation and sleep creep over the faint hum in the back of his mind that told him he had unfinished business. Once again, it would have to wait, these questions of motivation and meaning, until he could forgo the warm press of Norway against him.

He felt Norway shift out of the possessive cling of his arms, opening his eyes just enough to watch the lines of his naked back pass over him as a hand reached for the light, casting them into darkness and sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Denmark woke some unknown time later, toes cold from peeking out from under the rumpled covers, startled awake by the sensation of being in an unfamiliar place, blinking into the almost pitch darkness of the strange room. In the lazy waking of his mind, it occurred to him that there should be someone else in bed, but then he still felt that way some maudlin mornings when he came to alone in Copenhagen, remembering that Norge hasn’t shared his house in a long time.

But this was no morning, he was naked, and the room smelled of sex and a touch of liquor, and so Denmark groaned as he stretched out stiff arms, feeling idly across the expanse of the mattress for the skin he knew he had no real hope of finding as the sheets had gone cool.

“Goddamn it, Norge,” Denmark grumbled into his pillow, only to yelp with surprise when a wry, unimpressed voice called out to him from the darkness:

“As unsubtle as ever, Denmark.”

Denmark sat up, sheets pooling around his waist as he peered into the dimness, waiting for his eyes to adjust so he could try and see exactly where Norge had slunk off, buoyed by the knowledge that he apparently hadn’t gone far.

He ran a hand through his messy hair, flicking his tongue out over his kiss bitten lips, remembering that Norge had said that to him just before he’d enacted his favorite _“Get Denmark to do my bidding,_ ” strategy.

But now he was awake and there was nothing to keep him from demanding answers, from chasing Norge down their beaten and well worn path until he gave in and told him what he had obviously come all the way to Stockholm to say in the first place, to reveal whatever it was that made him give up his precious anonymity.

“That again?” Denmark said flippantly, shifting forward on the bed, listening to it creak in the silence as he finally was able to make out Norway’s face in the shadowed moonlight sneaking in from the drawn curtains.

Norway turned to him with wide and tired eyes, murmuring, “Yes, that again. You’ve always been so loud, so undeniably, irritatingly present. As though you can’t help but want all the attention in the room.”

Denmark frowned with confusion, shifting forward on the bed, attempting to inch closer as it seemed that Norway had come to the same conclusion he had upon waking. That the time for diversions and distractions was over and that in the hours that remained, it had become time to reveal his secrets to Denmark in that cryptic, glacial way that was so uniquely his own.

Cautiously, anxious with interest, Denmark retorted, “Well if I’ve always been this way, why bring it up now?”

“Because you have plans, daydreams, visions of retribution and reconnaissance,” Norway said softly but surely.

Denmark smiled, thrilled that they were finally coming to this, pushing up on his knees and crawling to the edge of the bed, finding Norway’s gaze in the dark.

“Damn right, I do,” He said hotly, warmed by the revelation that perhaps they were not so parted, that Norway still knew all his most treasured intentions, “You know me so well”

Norway grimaced in return, a sharp and sad thing that Denmark had always hated, shaking his head as he said frostily, “You are an open book, fool. Anyone could have read such idiocy in your angry eyes.”

“Because I lack subtlety,” Denmark answered tartly, annoyed by Norway’s continued evasion, disappointed to have his future hopes so continually tossed aside, wishing they could just go back to bed and wake up in a time where Norway still believed in him.

“Yes, damn you,” Norway hissed, taking Denmark aback with the intensity of his vehemence, “And because I am burdened with having known you for far too long to believe you capable of being other than who you are, I am left to imagine the endless failures of your attempts at subterfuge, at infiltration, espionage...any number of the ridiculous fantasies you’ve doubtless conjured.”

There was something in the desperation of Norway’s voice, the cracking weariness of his words that gave Denmark pause, made all the rushing frustration at being so lost and dismissed fade abruptly into the night, the mystery of Norge unveiled by one startling, unbelievable realization.

“You’re worried,” Denmark breathed out, feeling the tremulous stretch of his smile as his words fell into the silence, the hurt three years of waiting and wondering suddenly tempered and tamed by the telling lack of Norge’s denial.

Embolden with the urgent need to touch Norway, to assure him that they were both here and whole, though the future remained so uncertain, Denmark slid from the bed, feeling his way towards a Norway cloaked in darkness, heart thudding under the weight of Norge’s unspoken confession.

“You’re here now because my people are starting to resist,” Denmark said softly, smiling gently, wary of Norway’s rebuke, coming closer to the pale shock of hair, “You think I want to be a part of it.”

Norway huffed quietly, turning his shining, knowing eyes towards Denmark’s wanting gaze, “I know it. You are ridiculously predictable.”

Warmed by this unexpected showing of Norway’s hand, the revelation that he hadn’t been so alone in the wilderness of anxiety and hopeful concern, Denmark let go of the pain of Norge’s absence, the sting of his secrecy, knowing that for him to have done this much had likely cost him dearly.

Still smiling, even though he doubted Norway could see his happiness in the black of the room, Denmark settled on his knees in front of Norway’s chair, blinking to clear his eyes, needing to see what openness there was to be discovered in Norge’s face, hit with a sudden, desperate spike of lust when he realized what it was that was keeping Norway so well hidden in the night.

“Are you wearing my coat?” Denmark asked roughly, flinging out his hands to finger the fabric that draped over Norway’s knees, delighted by the idea of Norway crawling from their bed to crawl into his jacket.

“It was cold,” Norway said shortly, though Denmark didn’t fail to notice the slow parting of his legs.

“I like it,” Denmark answered approvingly, letting his hands wander up the curves of Norway’s calves, tickling the vulnerable hollow of his knee, peering up at Norge’s bemused, knowing expression.

“That much is obvious,” Norway said flatly, “Because you give yourself away so easily.”

“Because I lack subtlety,” Denmark growled, but this time with a measure of happiness he had not felt in many years, before pressing his mouth, hot and greedy to the ridge of Norway’s ankle, reaching out with one long arm to try and push the curtains further open, wanting the vision of Norway naked and wrapped in his black coat.

“Yes,” Norway said, terse and breathless, turning his face towards the moonlight pouring in through the crack in the curtains, the sight of his long pale neck and the parting of his lips nearly blinding Denmark with lust and affection.

“Hey,” Denmark said playfully as he pushed further between Norway’s legs, running one knuckle up the hard, flush of his shaft, demanding his attention, “You could always show me, show me how to be more like you.”

“And what am I like?” Norway asked, hands drifting out of the too long sleeves of the coat to rest on Denmark’s shoulders, his voice thick and cool.

“Like the pond in winter at our old place in Silkeborg,” Denmark said with earnest sweetness, kissing his way up the warmth of Norway’s thigh, tracing his tongue over the gentle tremors, telling Norway with words and touch how he understood, “Frozen beauty like polished glass. Who knows what’s going on under the ice?”

He kept his eyes open at Norway bent down to kiss him, his face held between two familiar palms, roughened by centuries of wandering and war, closing them only when their lips met in a searching, piercing kiss.

Denmark could feel Norway hot and hard against his chest, could feel the coat bunch beneath his fingers, and he imagined he could feel a small measure of his own yearning returned to him in the way Norway kept kissing him, even when breathing became an issue and his neck was starting to ache.

It reminded him of a hot afternoon in quiet church nave in Trondheim not so long ago.

At length, Norway pulled away, lips wet and full and turned upwards at the corner as he murmured, “In that case, it is impossible.”

“Oh?” Denmark said into the damp warmth of Norway’s inner thigh, breathing out hot and fast across the curve of his cock, keeping his eyes turned towards Norway’s vaguely amused expression.

Hands settled in his hair, fingers digging into his scalp, tugging his head back to meet Norway’s arch stare as he answered, all smoke and temptation, “I could no more teach you subversion than I could teach France chasteness.”

He nipped at Norway’s thigh in retaliation, licking the skin as it jumped under his teeth, brushing his fingers up the length of his cock, unable to keep himself from laughing when Norway cursed under his breath and murmured:

“But I suppose you have charms all of your own.”

Denmark shifted up, showing Norway his wide, happy smile as he reached to open his coat at the lapels, baring Norway’s chest, pale and thin to his hungry eyes, pressing eager, hasty kisses across the lines of his collarbone and the rise of his nipples, enjoying each hissing sigh and moan, allowing his head to be pulled back sharply once more to be beholden to Norway’s needy lips.

With his hands he remembered the feel of Norway’s breathing under his palms and the steady, unceasing thrum of his heart beat against his chest. Slowly, taking his time, knowing that this one heady hour of the night would likely have to sustain him when Norge disappeared into the dawn to take up his next cause, Denmark traced his way over the softness of Norway’s stomach, curling his fingers around the cock that jutted hot and insistent against him, humming into their kiss as Norway arched forward and bit down on his lip.

“As vicious as ever,” Denmark mumbled against the sting, dragging his mouth away from Norway’s wonderfully cruel teeth and tongue, returning the favor in the hollow beneath his jaw before settling once more on his heels, naked and calm in the coolness of the room, all his boundless energy spiraling inwards.

Norway’s fingers were strangely soft in his hair as they guided Denmark forward, so close that he couldn’t help but part his lips over Norway’s cock, tasting him again. And though the answering intake of breath echoed in the stillness of the room, Denmark knew he would remember always the whispered words that followed as he took Norway within his mouth:

“Your time to act will come.”

Flooded with lust and determination, Denmark winked lasciviously at Norway’s flushed, undone expression, holding him between his lips and over his tongue, fingers pressing in his admiration along the taut skin of his hips and then down, down, beneath the slide of his mouth to paint colorless pictures of his desire across the warmth of his thighs.

And still the fingers on his head touched him gently, filling him with a sense of comfort he was never entirely sure that Norway intended to convey, but accepting as such when he knew that he was unlikely to get words of confirmation, taking instead what he could; Norway, safe and spread before him, under his hands and in his throat, quiet moans in his ears, and soft hands that felt dangerously close to loving in his hair.

As he stroked Norway with his tongue and his hand, an old familiar act that had always given them both pleasure, Denmark thought of the risk Norge had taken in coming here tonight, the risks he had been taking in these years of the War, trying to find the truth in Norway’s assurance that in some moment, he, too, might rise to the occasion and be bold once more.

Abruptly, Norway took himself away, pushing Denmark backwards to sprawl gracelessly in a long heap of legs and arms and swollen lips on the hotel room floor.

Gaping, Denmark stared up at Norway, hands already reaching for him in surprised frustration as Norway lowered himself down, black coat spilling over his sides, draping them both beneath its folds before he could issue a protest.

Denmark could not help but wind his arms around Norway’s back, pulling him down so they were flush together, all anxious, lust-laden warmth and desirous skin, knowing that Norge had rarely looked so beguiling as he did now, propped over him with eyes that glittered in the moonlight and a body that was hidden from every gaze but his own.

“Idiot,” Norge whispered in his ear, tongue curving around the lobe, “You should listen to those who know better.”

“Listen to what?” Denmark answered as quietly, trapped within the hush of Norway and night, hands drifting lower to make better use of the slow, steady rock of hips against his own, Norway’s cock sliding slickly over his own, unraveling him softly.

“You are so foolhardy,” Norway answered, barely more than a ghost of breath over this throat, distracting him from the way Norway’s legs were spreading wider and the cool, fingers that were wrapping around his cock, stroking lightly even as the teasing exhale of speech persisted, “Arrogant and sometimes so blithely oblivious.”

Denmark wondered through the mire of his lust how it was that Norway could manage such words when they were pressed so close together, mingling breath and heart beat, biting down on a throaty moan as he understood what it was Norway intended as he shifted up, tenting the coat around them, hands moving Denmark’s cock between the shadowed parting of his legs.

Norway looked at him, heavy lidded and serious, still speaking so quietly that Denmark strained upwards, trying not to rush Norge’s slow, controlled, deliberate push downwards on to his waiting, wanting body, struggling to hear words over the furious racing of his heart.

“These are days of silence.”

Denmark’s throat tightened, catching on the softness in Norway’s eyes and the sad resignation in the far reaches of his practical mind, trailing his hands up the curves that led to the fragility of Norway’s lovely face, holding him close as he was held within.

“It won’t always be this way,” Norway said with whispered determination, “The time for your idiocy will come again.”

He nodded, agreement, acknowledgement and acquiescence in one, raising his knees to support the short, rolling movements of Norway’s body, so warm and so knowing, closing his eyes when Norway’s chest met his and they were kissing once again.

The desperation of the kiss belied the lazy, quiet way in which Norway moved above him, only the rustle of the coat and the shifting of Denmark’s skin along the carpet, burning and branding him as they remembered and reminded each other who they were in the darkness.

At length, Denmark could feel the trembling in Norway’s thighs, hot and slick over his lap, cock hard against his stomach, rubbing against him with each little push-pull of their hips. Their embrace had become a messy tangle of hands and lips, searching and searing.

He folded Norway within the long reach of his arms and between the cradle of his knees, letting his aching back do the work, wishing that this was a sun filled afternoon so he would be able to better recall the way Norge’s hair fell sweaty over his forehead and the stain of his lips from Denmark’s possessive lips. He kissed the flush of his cheek and the fine slope of his nose, listening to his broken, gasping little breaths, feeling the heat between them kindle beyond control.

And when Denmark touched his lips, reverent and regretful to the thin scar that he had did not understand, Norway sighed and stiffened, hands and body clenching tightly and wonderfully around him, coming over their stomachs. Denmark kept his eyes open, struggling to watch the loveliness of the breaking of Norway’s ice, remembering once more what it was to see under the polished glass, beautiful and deep. Finally, as Norway came back him, kissing him with breathless, dreamy determination, Denmark pushed up hard and fast, closing his eyes and giving into his desire, coming with quiet fervor.

Norway was draped over him like the coat over his back, loose and warm, protecting him from the world as Denmark took pleasure in the scattering of Norway’s absent, post-coital kisses across his neck and shoulders. He wondered if they were going to sleep on the floor, just like this, with only a jacket and the tangle of their bodies for warmth, knowing that there weren’t many hours before daylight.

His question was answered when he felt Norway lift his head from his shoulder just enough to drag the coverlet down from the bed, tossing it over them where they lay, returning his face to the curve of Denmark’s neck and resettling his arm over Denmark’s chest. Denmark smiled and held him closer, surprised to feel the answering tightening of Norway’s hands and a quiet rushing sigh of breath over his throat.

“Not very subtle, Norge,” Denmark murmured softly, running his fingers through his hair.

“There is a time and place for everything,” Norway answered, pressing impossibly closer, reminding Denmark of all that he had said, the worry and the warning, and also reassurance and hope of better days to come.

“So you say,” Denmark said, tilting Norway’s chin up, “I get it.”

“Good,” Norway said in a rush, hiding his relief by closing his eyes to Denmark’s hungry gaze, kissing him sleepily, letting Denmark hold him.

“Hey,” Denmark whispered, drifting towards dreams, “Try to remember that I’m thinking about you, next time you’re off being a pain in Germany’s ass.”

“Idiot,” Norway murmured, lacing their hands together, “As if I would forget.”

And though the days before them were uncertain but for the certainty of difficulty and struggle, Denmark's heart beat lighter and freer with Norway close and near as they fell into sleep together.

  
~~~~

Denmark woke alone, cold and stiff on the hotel room floor, sunlight streaming in through the parting of the curtains and into his eyes. Norway’s warmth was gone, only the marks of the night remained, scattered over his chest and stomach and burned into the soreness of his back.

His coat was gone, too.


End file.
